Mad Girl's Love Song
by blockowitz
Summary: Quinn Fabray was a foreign correspondent. Was. Now she is just lost. AU Faberry, with side Brittana and Samcedes.
1. Prologue

_The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,_  
_And arbitrary blackness gallops in:_  
_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_  
_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane._  
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

-Sylvia Plath

**PROLOGUE**

Would you put your soul into something you knew would end?

I already have. I already have, and now it has ended.

I always used to feel most like myself at night. It's in those twilight hours that most things are still. Breathing comes a bit slower, silence a bit faster. Not now, though. It has been another sleepless night because she is not here.

All around me the city earns its name and does not sleep. My quiet is broken by traffic sounds, the rattle of movement far below. A car backfiring makes me flinch.

I love when she comes around because she makes me better.

Life's possibilities opened up before me, before snapping shut with a cackle and a sneer.

If you had to choose, would you rather be happy or free?

I wanted to have both. It did not work out the way I planned. I chose both, and now I have nothing.

It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Or so they say.

I have experienced more of love in the last few weeks than I ever have before, and I didn't even know it.. Maybe that is enough for me, enough for anyone. Maybe I should leave it there. Not everyone keeps their love forever.

Would you put your soul into something you knew would end?

If you had to choose, would you rather be happy or free?

Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

She is gone.

I do not have any answers.


	2. Chapter 1 oo March 2024

**CHAPTER ONE  
**_**Thursday 24**__**th**__** March 2024**_

Doctor Pillsbury's office has one of those distracting clocks. The kind that goes _tick, tick, tick_, instead of _tick, tock, tick_. The second hand shudders along behind its plastic case. Staring at the clock is not making it go any faster. I can still try, though.

"What brings you to my office, Ms Fabray?"

It is bothering me that the clock only ticks. I keep staring at is whilst thinking about my answer to Doctor Pillsbury's question. She can't be asking about the events that brought me here. Everybody knows, everybody saw it on the news. She must have spoken to my boss; she must know exactly why I am here. However, that is the most neutral avenue, so I speak.

"My boss."

I glance across at her to see her reaction. She appears unconcerned, looking at the notepad on her lap. She is holding her pen just in front of her mouth. I think she has broken a habit of chewing it, but still holds it close. As if sensing my gaze, she meets my eyes, and I quickly look away. She is seated opposite me, with a small coffee table between us.

"What, specifically, does your boss have to do with this appointment?"

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

There is a book on the table, with a title that I do not understand. Half of the words make sense, the rest are medical. There are more books on the shelf behind Doctor Pillsbury. I can see books about domestic abuse and emotional disorders, numerous issues _Psychology Today_ and _The American Journal of Psychological Studies_. I wonder how many books she consulted before meeting me.

The clock is easier to look at, it is a plastic companion. It has a face that shows no emotions. So that is where my eyes return before speaking again.

"You know why I'm here."

I want to tell her that I've already been in the care of three doctors and psychologists. I want to tell her that I don't need to be here, really. I'll be fine on my own if they let me go. I want to ask her if she ever goes for a walk and thinks that she might slip down through the cracks in the pavement. I want to tell her that I'll climb back up on my own.

But I don't. If I say those sorts of things, she'll want to talk about them. It's her job to talk. I don't want to talk. I wonder how she does it.

I chance another look at her. If she is annoyed by my reticence, she doesn't show it. Instead, she is levelling an inquisitive stare at me. I move my eyes back to the clock, which is counting time at a sluggish pace. The clock doesn't have eyes that meet mine, only turning hands on a track. It's comforting.

"That's true, Ms Fabray. But I would like you to tell me, in your own words."

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

Her tone reminds me of my chemistry teacher in high school. Mr Davis would instruct us to read pages of information on scientific concepts, and then ask us to explain them to each other in a different way. He said it was an exercise in thinking. He said we had to consider our knowledge and experience, and then tell someone else about it in a coherent way. Communicating effectively. It was easy to me. It was easy.

I don't explain now, I repeat. Even that is difficult.

"I am required to complete a minimum of 15 hours of therapy before returning to work."

Now we are getting closer to a topic I would rather avoid. I look away from the clock and instead at my hands, which are resting in my lap. They are rough. Before everything happened, my mother would have called them a pianist's hands. She doesn't dare speak about them now, but she watches them with tears in her eyes. My nails are bitten down to their quicks, and the skin around is torn and sore. Scars rope and lump around my wrists.

I look at Doctor Pillsbury's hands. They look soft, the nails well-maintained. She holds them easily, like she does not mind who sees them. I don't suppose she does mind. She wears a wedding ring. I can imagine her holding hands with her husband, and I envy that she has that small pleasure. I envy that her mother does not cry when she looks at her. I envy that she is allowed to do her job without being required to undergo psychiatric and medical evaluation. I envy everything about her.

"And do you want to return to work?"

I feel a spike of anger towards the woman. She keeps making small notes about me, and I want to know what she is writing. I am sure the paper in front of her has the answers to all of her questions. I am sure she knows everything I have to say. She isn't even asking anything important. Work is not important. My boss is not important. None of that matters. The way Doctor Pillsbury's husband and mother look at her matters. Normalcy matters.

Normal people have jobs. Even if I don't want to go back, I have to. Reporting is the job that I know how to do. It's the job I am good at. I have to go back to that job. It is the one thing I have to go back to that will be the same. My family has changed. My friends have changed. The news is always changing, but that is what makes it reliable. It's meant to be different each time. I have to go back to it. I need to.

"Yes."

She makes a small noise, and I'm not sure if she means it as acknowledgement or disbelief. In either case, she is still making notes about me. I notice a framed portrait of two children on her desk, and begin to hate her. She has a stable life. I can't hold onto the hate, though. It slips out of my hands like water. It's like all of my emotions.

"Where is it that you work?"

"The American News Broadcast. I was a foreign correspondent."

_Was_.

She's staring down at her notes again, so I take the opportunity to glare at her. It was half-hearted, and she is oblivious to it. When she looks up again I look back to my hands. They used to be like hers. I start to pick at the skin around my nails. Nerves. When I look up again she is staring at me, and she doesn't look away. We keep eye contact for a few seconds before I look away again. Eyes are too personal.

"You said you were a foreign correspondent. What are you now?"

I look into her eyes again, for a moment. They seem more intense than they were before her question. I don't want her to see my eyes. Her eyes are not bloodshot or shadowed. There aren't bags that tell of sleepless nights, the fear of what you might see when you aren't awake. There is emotion in her eyes, though I can't see what it is. Pity, maybe. Empathy. Curiosity. She knows how to hide it, which probably makes her good at her job.

Her job.

I look at the clock again. A few minutes have passed since the last time I checked, but there is still another forty minutes left of the appointment. Does the hour still count if I don't talk? Nobody ever said I had to talk to the woman. The second hand keeps shuddering on, going in circles. We're both stuck in this office, at least I can leave at the end.

I was a foreign correspondent. Was. I don't know what I am now. I don't know what I am or what I want to be. I want to go back to my job, but not because I think I'll enjoy it. I want to go back because that's what other people would do. They'd get on with their lives.

She wants to know what I am now? She wants to know?

_Tick, tick, tick, tick_.

The rest of the appointment passes without conversation.


	3. Chapter 2 oo July 2023

**CHAPTER TWO  
**_**5**__**th**__** July 2023**_

"Get in here, Fabray!"

I wince as my name is shouted across the newsroom, and then wince again as my co-workers start sniggering behind their hands. In a workplace like this you never really move on from that high school _look who's been sent to the principal's office _mentality.

I quickly make my way to my boss's office, brushing past the cliques of sports hounds and courtroom reporters, local news and international affairs. The vultures of entertainment news laugh without shame, assuming that I'm being called up for admonition.

Out of the office these are some of the nicest people I know, and I have a lot of friends here. It's a different story inside. The atmosphere is usually friendly, but it's overwhelmingly competitive. It's the era of digital news; although we operate across print, broadcast and internet media, jobs are being axed left and right. We all want to win.

"You called me, ma'am?"

The thing I like most about Sue Sylvester is how much she looks as though she'd rather be anywhere but here. It's refreshing to be in her office. That's not to say she doesn't take her job seriously. She's become softer with age, but she's still the office standard for hardness and work ethic.

"Don't 'ma'am' me, Quinn, you're not in trouble."

I breathe a sigh of relief. I had no idea what I could have done wrong to make her call me in here.

"Sorry, Miss Sylvester. Just taking precautions," I joke.

She gives the slightest twitch of a smile, and I relax a bit more, taking a seat across from her desk.

"Your precautions were appreciated, but unnecessary. I called you in for, well, I suppose you might call it a job interview."

I stare at her in confusion. I already work here, why would I have to do an interview? She sees my confusion, and sneers, before explaining.

"Around five years ago, you came into this office and told me you'd finished your degree, and would like a job. I didn't care about the degree, I cared about the portfolio you'd brought in with you. You'd already been published by us, and other companies. You were ambitious. You were a young Sue Sylvester."

Her explanation so far hasn't made me any less confused. Quite the opposite.

"You told me that your goal as a journalist was to become a foreign correspondent, and you'd work any rounds for as long as it took to get there."

Things are starting to make a bit more sense. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. I want to scream at her to get to the point.

"Your work has been impressive, Fabray. We'd like to put you on standby. Next news event that we can put a rookie correspondent on, you'll be the one to go. If you choose to accept, that is. It can be a hard job, Quinn; don't make the decision too lightly."

She stops, and stares intently at me, with uncharacteristic concern. I look back at her with shock for a few moments, before a wide grin spreads across my face. This is the opportunity I've been working for. This is the job I've wanted since I was a kid.

"Of course I accept, yes! Thank you so much for the opportunity, Miss Sylvester. I won't let you down."

Her face softens, and she tands up from her desk. I follow her lead, and we shake hands. Sealing the offer.

"If I thought you'd let me down, Fabray, I would never have offered you the job. Hold your horses, though, we might not have anything for you for a few weeks. Now sit down, and we'll hash out some of the details."

We both take our seats again. Sue leans forwards and rests her elbows on the desk, clasping her hands in front of her. I recognise it as her 'business' pose, and sit up straighter.

"I want to make sure you understand what you might be getting into by taking this job," she says, looking at me seriously.

"The reason we have a spot available is the last guy that got put on this couldn't handle the job. We might ask you to go into war zones or areas of extreme poverty. You might be away from your family for months at a time. You'll probably see things that you'll never forget, and things that will change you. I can't let you take this job without being aware of those things."

There are some moments in life that seem so hyper-realistic that you know they'll stay with you forever. Moments that you'll look back on in ten, twenty or fifty years, clear as the day they happened. Moments where you can feel the future laid out in front of you, splitting into two paths.

I can feel the wooden grain in the armrest of my chair. I can hear the noises of traffic from out the office window, and hear the noises of the newsroom from out the door. I can see Sue's sharp eyes, still staring intently at me, watching for insecurity or uncertainty. I can smell the sharp bitterness of her coffee, lying forgotten next to her computer. I can _taste_ my future. Everything I've wanted is so close I can taste it.

I think of Robert Frost. The literature units I studied in college. _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood_. This is my turning point; this is where my life begins.

Sue's words ring through my head. I've heard the stories from foreign correspondents. I've heard the stories about them, about the ones who never really come back. I could be posted in London or I could be posted in Baghdad. I've heard the stories.

"I understand. I want the job."

Sue smirks across the table at me, before bending under her desk. I try not to roll my eyes when she re-emerges with a tub of protein powder. The drinks are part of her daily routine, and a sign that I am about to be dismissed.

"You've got to be pretty excited, then, huh? This is the job you've been waiting for. Go on, Fabray, take the rest of the day off to celebrate, I don't want your stench of smugness distracting the others from their work. And make sure you tell them that you were getting a promotion, not a suspension. I want to see if any of them cry."

I laugh, and thank her again for the job, before going back into the newsroom. I watch in amusement as all of the conversations stop, and my co-workers try to pretend that they weren't just speculating about whether I've been fired. I just smile and continue back to my desk, letting the whispers and the stage whispers roll of my back.

I start to gather my things, getting ready to head to my parents' house and tell them the news. The fresh wave of whispers tells me that everyone else assumes I am clearing out my desk. It's ridiculous, of course; I'm one of the best workers here. I can see some of my better friends smirking at the others. At least some people realise it's not what it seems.

"Sue gave me the afternoon off work to celebrate becoming the next junior foreign correspondent."

My voice rings high and clear across the room, effectively stopping all of the gossip mongering. I see smiles come over some of the faces in front of me. Sam offers a thumbs up, and I smile gratefully at him in return. He, at least, is genuinely happy for me. I'd like to think I'm pretty well liked – at the very least my ambition is well known. Some faces show jealousy and resentment, quickly wiped blank before smiles are forced across in their place.

This is the happiest I've been in a long time. I want to call my parents, call everyone I know. Tell them that I got job they've been hearing me sigh after for so long. Then rising, unbidden, into my head comes the end of Frost's poem.

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,__  
I took the one less travelled by,__  
And that has made all the difference._

__A thrill of foreboding washes over me, halting my smile. Sam gives me a concerned look, silently asking what just happened. I shake my head at him, and bring my smile back to full beam. I am not afraid.

This is the day I have been waiting for.


End file.
